Am I really the slouch I seem to be?
Each day brings a test of my integrity
Indeed—each meal cooked,
each task calling to attention my
lack of consciousness, each word spoken,
every word thought?
Oh, my god, where to hide?
When to languish?
How to relax in Integrity’s lap?
The housewife’s job description never mentioned
soul-firing, not chastisement, nor mere purification—
I mean a trip to the kiln where,
wearing my faults and inadequacies like a glaze,
they are annealed to my whole surface
in blazing colors for all to see, for me to acknowledge.
My integrity stands–
not always questioned,
yet ever exposed.